All posts by GretchenJoanna

Unknown's avatar

About GretchenJoanna

Orthodox Christian, widowed in 2015; mother, grandmother. Love to read, garden, cook, write letters and a hundred other home-making activities.

September is in my blood.

Blooms on arbutus unedo, the Strawberry Tree.

The American Labor Day holiday is on the very first day of September this year. This prompts me to pay closer attention at the outset, because that’s also the first day of the liturgical year for Orthodox Christians. I’ve been supremely blessed by various aspects and events of the day…

First, it’s quite warm, which is too hot for some people, but I guess it’s in my blood, to want to be enveloped by air that is not much colder than my body temperature. (Of course I don’t feel the same way about it when the humidity is approaching that of my blood.) No marine breeze has come against me for a couple of days; even at night, when the temperature eventually drops to the usual mid-50’s, evidently it lingers in those lower registers more briefly. It is sweet, to feel fully relaxed, without sweaters or quilts. This kind of day is why I love September so much.

My sometimes helper Alejandro wanted to come and work this morning, so he could do family things later on. He probably would have come at sunrise if I’d let him, but he was willing to come a little later, and he cleaned up and trimmed the most parched and spent things around the place. That lifted my already floating spirits a few feet higher.

I pruned the lemon tree a bit, and removed numerous pine needles and spider webs from it, then texted with my brother about what might be causing some fruit to be deformed. He helped me figure out that it is citrus bud mites. I don’t know, if anything, what I will do about this. Maybe some insecticidal soap…

I admired the tallest sunflower I have ever grown.
I dusted one bench, and sat on another
to admire my favorite echinacea flowers.

I watched the skippers on the zinnias,
and tidied up the apple mint and the lemon verbena.
I made tea with the trimmings of the verbena.

Bent-lined Carpet on the other side of the glass one morning.

From time to time I consider tossing out the orchids that have come to me over the years, all but one of which has never bloomed again. But a friend told me that I should give them the kind of nourishment they like, food that is designed specifically for orchids. She said there are different orchid fertilizers depending on the species of orchid, and whether it is in the bloom period or not. I bought just one type so far; that is a start! My plants have been outdoors for the summer, in the shade, where I remember to water them more often, and they seem to be generally very happy, even if only the one is blooming. Today I will start being a less lazy orchid farmer.

Orchid, with lemon tree in background.

I really would like to grow amaranth in my garden, but I keep forgetting to try again. The one time I planted seeds, they did come up, but I think they were shaded by zinnias or other vegetables and never thrived. Maybe next year. In the meantime, I discovered that a type of amaranth has self-sown in the cracks of my driveway.

Amaranthus blitoides, Prostrate Amaranth

Is gardening labor, or is it work? Many people have weighed in on the difference in meaning between the two words, and after a brief perusal of their ideas it seems to me the discussion gets too complex for a day like today, when I am relaxing while working. I know working is the word I much prefer, unless I am talking about the births of my children.

Creeping thyme waiting to be planted.

I find a short quote about the words labor and work is not too taxing to think about on this non-laborious day:

“[Hannah] Arendt points to how language itself has always put a consistent break between them: “ponein and ergazesthai” in Greek, “laborare and facere” in Latin, “travailler and ouvrer” in French, “arbeiten and werken” in German, labor and work in English.” -Front Porch Republic 

In any case, I’m sure I will continue to do both, through September and onward, and I will try, I will even work, to be thankful for all of it, whatever God gives me strength to do.

They slumber in secrecy.

SLEEP

When all, and birds, and creeping beasts,
When the dark of night is deep,
From the moving wonder of their lives
Commit themselves to sleep.

Without a thought, or fear, they shut
The narrow gates of sense;
Heedless and quiet, in slumber turn
Their strength to impotence.

The transient strangeness of the earth
Their spirits no more see:
Within a silent gloom withdrawn,
They slumber in secrecy.

Two worlds they have–a globe forgot,
Wheeling from dark to light;
And all the enchanted realm of dream
That burgeons out of night.

-Walter de la Mare

The death of John the Baptist.

The glorious beheading of the Forerunner,
became an act of divine dispensation,
for he preached to those in hell the coming of the Savior.
Let Herodias lament, for she entreated lawless murder,
loving not the law of God, nor eternal life,
but that which is false and temporal.

-Hymn for the Feast, of The Beheading of the Glorious Prophet, Forerunner and Baptist John.

 

 

Abba Poimen

St. Poimen (or Pimen, or Poemen) the Great was born in Egypt in about 340. He and his two brothers joined themselves to a monastery in Scetis. After raids on Scetis caused the monastics to disperse, they began to assemble the Sayings of the Desert Fathers (the Apophthegmata Patrum), in which St. Poimen is the abba or poemen (“shepherd”) most often quoted.

“For many of the monks, Saint Pimen was a spiritual guide and instructor. They wrote down his answers to serve for the edification of others besides themselves. A certain monk asked, ‘If I see my brother sinning, should I conceal his fault?’ The Elder answered, ‘If we reproach the sins of brothers, then God will reproach our sins. If you see a brother sinning, do not believe your eyes. Know that your own sin is like a beam of wood, but the sin of your brother is like a splinter (Mt. 7:3-5), and then you will not enter into distress or temptation.'”

“Once, a monk from another country came to the saint to receive his guidance. He began to speak about sublime matters difficult to grasp. The saint turned away from him and was silent. They explained to the bewildered monk that the saint did not like to speak of lofty matters. Then the monk began to ask him about the struggle with passions of soul. The saint turned to him with a joyful face, ‘Now you have spoken well, and I will answer.’ For a long while he provided instruction on how one ought to struggle with the passions and conquer them.

“Saint Pimen died at age 110, about the year 450. Soon after his death, he was acknowledged as a saint pleasing to God. He was called ‘the Great’ as a sign of his great humility, uprightness, ascetic struggles, and self-denying service to God.” oca